To Thy High Requiem
by CallieMoon
Summary: K/S "City at the Edge of Forever" AU. When Kirk and Bones are thrown into the violent, chaotic world of pre-Surak Vulcan, they are given shelter by Spock, an enigmatic rebel. What happens when the weary, jaded captain falls for the unfailingly logical Vulcan will change not only their lives, but also the course of history, forever. (Also on AO3!)
1. Guardian of Forever

Hey, all! :) Well, this is a story that's been festering for a long time, ever since I saw a certain Tumblr post that both horrified and inspired the hell out of me (linked below). I've been working on this story on and off over the course of the last two years, and I've decided that it's about time to start sharing it with y'all. Feedback would be dearly appreciated, as this story means a lot to me and has seen me through several important stages of my personal growth. I hope you enjoy!

plaidshirtjimkirk . tumblr post/88639361736/imagine-a-city-on-the-edge-of-forever-au-where.

* * *

The lights flicked on in the small First Officer's quarters. There wasn't much to illuminate. Commander Sonak had been a precise, silent man, and it reflected in the hard sterility of his quarters. The blue Starfleet-issue blanket was crisply folded on the bed, as if no one had slept in it at all. His desk, angled beside the bed, only had a light touch of dust, and no pictures or metals winked atop its shelves.

Captain Kirk, standing in the doorway, sized up the room. He glanced down at the list on his PADD. "Well, I don't think it'll be too difficult to find what we need," he declared briskly, striding into the room. "Bones, you take his clothes, I'll take the computer."

Kirk stepped up to the computer. McCoy followed a few steps behind him and knelt down by the dresser. The first and second drawers were both empty, but the third held a small stack of clothes. McCoy took it out carefully, laying the folded garments out in front of him. Besides the science blue uniform, the Starfleet formal uniform, and nightwear, he only found one other article of clothing, a black Vulcan cape embroidered with golden lettering.

"This," McCoy called, looking back. "Who'd he bequeath this to?"

Kirk, bent over Sonak's computer, barely turned. "He wants it buried on Vulcan. Set it aside for now."

The captain transferred the last of Sonak's files to a data chip. He tossed the chip to McCoy. "Vulcan Science Institute."

McCoy fumbled to catch it. "Careful," growled McCoy, his eyes gleaming. "These belonged to your First Officer. You could show some respect."

Kirk ignored him and moved on to the stacked shelves beside the desk. "These all go to his brother," he muttered, clearing out one row of documents, "…and these…"

His hands stilled on one document. He needed to glance at it twice to confirm that it was handwritten, as Sonak's handwriting had all the exactness and uniformity of print. He had penned a note on it in black ink, and a small data chip was attached at the bottom.

Carefully packing away Sonak's phaser and tricorder, McCoy looked back. "What's that?" he inquired.

Kirk studied the page. "It's a note from Sonak. He says that if he's deceased, he'd like us to play this for him."

McCoy rose and walked over to join Kirk as he turned the computer back on and inserted the chip.

They waited. Several beats of silence hung. Then, in a rich, warm alto:

 _"Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me!"_

"It must be what he wants played at his funeral," said McCoy quietly.

 _"I once was lost, but now, am found, was blind, but now, I see."_

Jim stared at the computer, brow furrowed. McCoy looked at Jim and frowned. "Why do you look so surprised?"

"I never got to know him, but I didn't think of him as the spiritual type," he mused.

McCoy cocked his head. "Why not?"

Kirk laughed, a little bitterly. "Why not? Bones, we've watched civilizations destroy themselves because we weren't allowed to help them. We've seen crewmen die in the line of duty and we've written notes home to their families—always saying they'd died heroically and for the Federation, but we both knew it was for nothing. And look what we're doing now—cleaning up the quarters of a man who was killed two days ago."

"That's why people like us need it most," replied McCoy.

He looked at McCoy sharply. "What?"

"Belief."

 _"Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come/'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far, and Grace will lead me—"_

A voice sounded in the hallway. "Sir?" it asked tentatively.

Both men turned around. Uhura stood in the doorway.

"Ah, Uhura." Kirk popped out the chip, and handing it to McCoy, strode into the hallway to meet her.

The young lady explained, "I was just going to your quarters, but I heard your voice in there, so—" She shifted. "Sir, there's something I need to ask you."

Kirk nodded, opening his palm. "Go ahead."

She glanced down. "If possible, sir—if it won't cause any problems—may I have tonight's shift off?"

"Is there a reason?"

"I have—" She laughed. "You see, Ensign Thorin asked me to have dinner with him this evening."

The captain thought. "Lieutenant," he said after a moment. "That's very sweet, but there's a lot of work to be done before we reach Vulcan, and your first responsibility is to the ship."

"Yes, sir," replied Uhura slowly, lowering her head.

"And with the void left by Commander Sonak…" Kirk felt McCoy's presence at his shoulder. Sighing, Kirk pulled his lips into a smile. "Well. You can't let Ensign Thorin down, can you? You have the night off, Lieutenant. You can make up for it tomorrow."

Uhura smiled, bobbing her head. "I promise. Thank you, sir!"

Kirk nodded, and Uhura ducked out of the doorway. He and McCoy gazed after her as she disappeared down the hall.

"That's a kind of belief, too," Kirk said. "The strongest, and the most fragile."

"Looks like she's still got it," murmured McCoy.

"And I hope she never loses it."

* * *

Captain Kirk gazed into the mirror, adjusting the high collar of his earth-and-honey colored Vulcan tunic. He looped the belt around his waist and fastened the bronze buckle brooch. Finally, he draped on his burnished golden robe. The captain regarded himself in the mirror, his fingers rising to the fine shadows under his eyes. Sighing, he ran his fingers through his hair instead and strode out of his quarters.

He met McCoy walking down the hall, dressed in a shale-colored outfit.

"I'm already suffocating in this thing," grumbled McCoy as they stepped into the turbolift. "Transporter Room," he commanded.

"We're headed to a Vulcan funeral, Bones," reminded Kirk, watching the Enterprise floors go by. "We need to respect their customs."

McCoy snorted. Kirk glanced over. "What?"

"It's funny coming from you, that's all."

Jim eyed him. "You have his effects?"

McCoy held up the wooden box concealed by the drapes of his cloak. As he did, a book slid from under his arm and fell to the floor.

Kirk bent down and handed it back to him, glancing at the cover curiously. "What's this?"

"Vulcan history and customs. I barely even speak Vulcan, so since you're already a walking diplomatic disaster, I don't want to add to the catastrophe."

Kirk chuckled. "Very considerate of you."

After a beat of silence, McCoy asked, "So I hear Uhura's going to sing the _Amazing Grace_?"

"That's right."

"Well, that's going to be lovely. By the way, how did her date go? Are the two of them together?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"You never asked her about it?"

"The personal lives of my crewmen are not my business."

McCoy frowned. "Jim, you always know what's going on with your crew." Kirk was silent. "You've stopped having dinner in the mess hall," he pursued. "You don't stop to talk to your crewmen. You barely batted an eye even when your First Officer died."

Kirk took a deep breath. "Bones, over the last month, seventeen of my crewmen died. I hardly think it's worth it."

McCoy opened his mouth to reply. At that moment, the lift jolted beneath their feet. The two stumbled backwards, grabbing at the handrails.

"Not now," sighed McCoy.

Another impact rocked the ship. Clinging onto the handrail, Kirk whipped out his communicator. "Kirk to bridge. What's going on?"

The doors slid open to the transporter room. Kirk and McCoy stepped out. Sulu's voice came through.

"We aren't quite sure, sir. Though we're still in orbit around Vulcan, we seem to be encountering some sort of ripples."

Uhura, wearing a copper-colored dress, strode over to the two. "Ripples? What kinds of ripples?" she inquired.

"We're still investigating," replied Sulu. "They're doing no damage to the ship, so it looks like they're perfectly harmless minor disturbances."

"Good," replied Kirk. "Sulu, can you take care of it?"

"Aye, sir. Now, you'd better get down to Vulcan. You don't want to be late to the ceremony."

"We won't be. Kirk out."

He shut the communicator and turned to Uhura and McCoy. "Ready?"

"I'm never ready to deal with Vulcans, but I'm as ready as I'll ever be," replied McCoy.

"Tolerance, Bones," reminded Kirk. "Here, take the translator."

He passed McCoy the tubular object, and McCoy strapped it to the inside of his arm. Motioning them forward, Kirk stepped onto the transporter pad.

Once the three were in position, Kirk commanded, "Beam us out, Scotty."

Scotty nodded. "Send Sonak's family my regards."

The three disappeared in a flurry of light.

When they rematerialized, the first thing they became aware of was a sense of absence. While they had expected the hot, dry Vulcan winds, they felt only a vague coolness. Their ears detected nothing, not even animal sounds or distant voices. The three looked around. Boulders surrounded them, cracking the landscape and purple sky into jagged edges.

"Captain," ventured Uhura. "I don't think we're on Vulcan."

Captain Kirk shook his head slowly. "No, we're not."

"Some 'minor disturbances,'" grumbled McCoy. "Well, isn't this lovely."

The captain stepped onto a low boulder, struggling to see over the rock walls all around them. They were too high to peer over. Frowning, he jumped down, and Uhura and McCoy rejoined him.

"Where the hell are we?" murmured McCoy.

Kirk began to shake his head. A deep voice stated, "A question."

All three whipped around. Behind several mounds of rock, a smooth ring of stone stood, glowing with pockets of light, the hole in its center staring back at them.

"Who are you?" inquired the captain, stepping towards it.

"I am the Guardian of Forever."

McCoy lifted his tricorder. Frowning, he turned to Jim. "It's both alive and not alive."

"I am both and neither," confirmed the voice. "I am my own beginning, my own ending."

"We didn't come here for riddles," said Uhura. "Tell us where we are, and how we got here."

"I answer as simply as your level of understanding makes possible," the voice responded. "You have been caught in a current of time. You are here and everywhere."

The hole seared with light, and the captain squinted against it. Then, images flashed across it: the stars pulling apart, stars exploding, newborn planets blazing. As the planets cooled, various life forms sprang up. Humanoid figures blazed across the images, wild-eyed, tumbling across the dust in combat.

"Incredible," Kirk murmured. "4th Century Vulcan. This must be the week of the Great Uprising just a year before the Time of Awakening and rise of Surak."

He stepped up to the Guardian of Forever, appraising it. Then, he cautiously reached forward to touch the dazzling array of pictures.

"Nothing at all solid," he confirmed. "All a project—"

He vanished.

"Jim!" shouted McCoy. He rushed forward, Uhura on his heels.

"What have you done with the Captain?" demanded Uhura.

"He has passed into what was."

"A time portal," murmured Uhura.

The two turned to face the Guardian. In the hole, a blank red planet stared out at them.

Uhura blinked. "Vulcan—"

"Vulcan is no more."

Uhura sucked in a breath. "The Captain has changed history. He's…erased Vulcan."

"Only him," muttered McCoy. "Uhura, contact the ship. Get a landing party down here."

Uhura took out her communicator. "Uhura to Enterprise." While the communicator still flashed and whirred, nothing came through, not even static. "Uhura to Enterprise."

"Your ship is also no more."

"What?" said both Uhura and McCoy.

"What about the crew?"

"They never were. Without First Contact made by Vulcan, Earth never achieved interstellar travel. Because of this, Earth, too, is gone."

Uhura and McCoy exchanged a stunned glance.

McCoy said, "So Jim is wandering around on Vulcan in some godforsaken century, and we're stranded with no past and no future?"

"Seems so," replied Uhura.

McCoy blinked. Then, he set his mouth into a firm lime. "Guardian, if someone enters, can they return?"

"If you rectify the change in history, the currents of time will recognize that you do not belong at the time where you have landed, and they will carry you back to your own era."

He nodded. "All right. Show us the dawn of Vulcan again."

Before them, a red-hot planet once again burst with light and fire.

McCoy watched for a few moments as life arose from the dusts of Vulcan once more. Then, he turned to face Uhura. "Uhura, when you think you've waited long enough, you'll have to go through. You have to promise me you'll try to find happiness wherever and whenever you end up. You'll get a new career, meet new people, maybe even fall in love—"

Uhura frowned. "Sir?"

McCoy fixed his blue eyes on the young woman. "Promise."

Uhura nodded slowly, understanding dawning on her. "Yes, sir."

The image of Vulcans locked in combat flashed across the screen again. Whipping around, McCoy sprinted toward, took his leap, and promptly vanished.


	2. Fever Visions

A hot, dry desert wind buffeted McCoy's face. He squinted, eyes burning with sand. A rocky, barren landscape blazed endlessly before him in the red sunlight.

"Damn it, Jim," he muttered. He took out his tricorder. "McCoy to Captain Kirk." The lights flashed weakly. "McCoy to Captain Kirk."

Static crackled on the other end. He looked all around him, but saw no relief to the inexorable desert landscape. With no choice, he began walking.

As hours of searching passed, the sun burned his neck and forehead. Hot sweat crawled down his back and down his face. He touched his hand to his face to gain a moment's relief, only to find that his hand was also feverishly hot.

Once again, he spoke into his tricorder, "McCoy to Kirk."

A hot silence greeted him. Frowning, McCoy turned around, going in the opposite direction.

A burst of dizziness and lightheadedness accompanied each step, and each swallow came with a sear of pain in his parched throat. McCoy reached into his satchel and drew out an emergency nutritional hypospray, holding the hot glass in his sweaty palm and struggling to think. He pushed it back into his satchel and kept going. If Jim had been in that desert for even a day longer than him…

He pushed the thought out of his mind and continued walking, comming every few minutes.

At last, the fierce red of the sky rusted and hardened to maroon, and the roast of the sun dulled to a throb on the back of his neck. The dry winds cooled the sweat on his flushed face. As the sun set behind him, it thrust long, severe shadows ahead of him. McCoy glanced around at the wide, endless desert around him, and as the shadows lengthened and the landscape darkened, the anxiety gnawing in his chest tightened to a hard knot of fear.

For what must have been the thousandth time, he took out his communicator and said wearily, "McCoy to Kirk."

In the darkness, the lights flashed, and he could hear occasional pops of static. Squaring his jaw, he picked up his pace, and each time he commed, the signal grew stronger and stronger.

Darkness seeped over the dusty expanse, and the desert transformed into a land of hard shadows and jagged outlines. Taking in a shaky breath, he paused and scanned the landscape. To the east, low, rocky hills edged the land, breaking the scene into harsh fragments.

"McCoy to Kirk."

The comm flashed and whirred. Comming every minute to a strengthening signal, McCoy stumbled in the direction of the mountains. Now that the sun no longer beat on his face, he grew keenly aware of the sharp ache in his feet, pulling at the sinews. He grit his teeth, ignored it, and went on, the hills looming larger.

In the last light, McCoy limped to the rocky foot of the mountain, the comm buzzing and flashing in his hand. He pushed himself up the slope, all of his muscles straining.

"Jesus," he gasped. "Goddamn son of a—"

"Bones?"

Both the voice itself and the raspy, helpless tone surprised him. McCoy whipped around.

"Jim?"

"Here."

Kirk crawled out of the crevasse between two boulders. Even in the darkness, McCoy could see his state. His Vulcan attire was ripped and dirt-caked, and his flushed face raw from the desert winds. His deep-sunken eyes shone bright with fever.

"Jim!" McCoy immediately knelt by his side. Even more worryingly, Jim didn't even protest as McCoy pushed him onto his back and began running his tricorder over him. When he glanced at it for readings, he swore under his breath.

"The sand got into it," he murmured. "It's broken, goddamnit."

He dropped the tricorder and placed his hand on Jim's forehead, then opened his mouth to look into his throat.

"You're running a very high fever and you're severely dehydrated," he murmured. "My God, Jim, how long have you been out here?"

"Five sunsets," he grunted. "Including this one. How did you find me?"

"Well, it wasn't easy," McCoy huffed, rummaging in his satchel. "Shut up and I'll—" He fell silent.

Kirk looked up. "Bones?" he rasped.

"The hyposprays. The heat denatured everything. It's all right, Jim, we'll get you to civilization, we'll—"

"No," Jim replied hoarsely. "This is Vulcan, 4th Century. Vulcan before the great leader Surak united the planet with his philosophy of logic. There is no such thing as civilization. All the Vulcans are savage, hostile." He paused. "We can't go back?"

"We can, in a little while, but not until…" He sighed. "Look, it's complicated, Jim. Just stop talking and let me figure something—"

A savage cry cut him off. McCoy snapped around. Jim quickly sat up.

"Who's there?" McCoy demanded.

Three tunic-clad figures stepped out from the shadows. They closed in around them, daggers gripped in their hands.

Both men clambered to their feet.

"We have no intention to harm you," Kirk managed hoarsely, raising his hands unsteadily. Cursing under his breath, he switched to Vulcan, which he had last used in the mandatory Linguistics courses back at the Academy. "We have no intention to harm you," he repeated in Vulcan. "Put down the daggers."

One of the men snarled. He lunged forward, slashing at Kirk with his weapon. Kirk ducked, sending his fist towards the man's gut. Side-stepping easily, the man knocked him aside with a swing of his arm to Kirk's head. McCoy leapt forward, caught Kirk in one arm, and kicked the man in the knees. Howling, the man collapsed. Kicking him again in the forehead, McCoy swiped the blade out of his hand, parrying just in time as the second savage lunged towards him. Regaining his footing, Kirk twisted out of McCoy's grip and leapt towards the third man, fist hurtling. The man leapt to the side and slashed across Kirk's side. Kirk reeled, grabbing a fistful of the man's tunic as he stumbled backwards. Yanking the man towards him and digging his fingers into his wrists, Kirk drove his knee into the savage's groin. The man bellowed and fell to the ground. Wrenching the weapon out of the man's hand, Kirk sprinted over to McCoy, who was locked in dagger combat with the last man standing.

As Kirk arrived, the savage parried McCoy's dagger and halted. Breathing raggedly, he backed up, dropped his weapon, and raised his hands. McCoy, frowning, slowly lowered his own dagger.

"He's surrendering," murmured McCoy, turning to Kirk.

The savage raised his fingers to his lips, and a sharp whistle pierced the desert landscape. Kirk and McCoy exchanged a glance.

"Jim—"

A coarse growl sounded. The two turned. A slender beast leapt from boulder to boulder, its muscles bunched and haunches heaving. Its golden eyes and yellow-dappled back glinted in the last light. It paused on a broad, flat rock, arching its back and stretching its mouth open. Its long, curved fangs glittered with venom. The creature affixed his golden eyes to the savage's. The man whistled once again.

The beast pounced down to a lower rock, snarling. Wide-eyed, Kirk pulled McCoy back towards the boulder shelter, but the savage snatched up his dagger and ran in pursuit. As McCoy whipped around to engage him, Kirk turned to face the beast, poised on a rock with muscles tensed in preparation. The beast stared at him with narrowed eyes, nostrils flaring.

Taking a deep breath and raising his dagger, Kirk sprinted towards the beast. The beast roared, leaping at him with claws extended. Kirk stepped to the side, thrusting the dagger towards the creature's throat. Twisting away from the blade, the beast roared again, spraying hot saliva into Kirk's face. Growling, it slashed at Kirk's chest with its claws. Pain seared through his body, electrifying each nerve. He reeled. The beast, eyes glowing, slowly opened its mouth again. Then, it sprang forward and sank its fangs into Kirk's shoulder.

As Kirk collapsed to the ground, the creature prowled over his body, its supple limbs rippling with muscle. Its heavy paws pressed down his pounding chest, the claws piercing his skin. Kirk, pinned to the ground, gasped for air, fists clenching. The creature's hot breath steamed over Kirk's face. The golden eyes narrowed. The beast opened its mouth for the kill.

The creature tensed and stiffened. Its eyes widened, and all its hairs prickled. Air puffed out of its nostrils and hanging mouth. Without warning, the pressure of its paws on Kirk's chest lifted, and the creature collapsed to the ground.

Kirk gasped for air. Panting and heart racing, Kirk coughed, shakily sitting up. He looked around. Cornered against the boulders, McCoy was engaged in heated combat with the savage. Before Kirk could rise, a figure stepped up behind the dueling men, reaching for the savage's neck. Within moments, the savage, too, had collapsed to the ground.

A wave of blackness washed over him. When he next opened his eyes, a Vulcan man stood over him, tall and slender. In lilting Traditional Golic Vulcan, he asked quietly, " _Mamut bolau du ha_?"

Kirk struggled to push a translation through his dizzied brain. _"Do you require assistance?"_

" _Ri_ ," replied Kirk, though pain needled through all of his veins as he struggled to sit up. He gazed up at his savior, looking from his worn laced boots to his blue tunic to his angular face. The man's sides heaved slightly from exertion, but his broad shoulders and clear gaze spoke of steadfastness and natural dignity. While the savagery of the other Vulcans made their garb seem savage and primitive, the quietness in this man's dark eyes endowed his tunic with a noble, venerable quality.

McCoy came running over. "Jim!" Noticing the stranger, he stumbled to a halt. "Now who the hell are you?"

The Vulcan turned towards him. "Though I do not understand your tongue, I am assuming you are telling me to leave immediately."

"Close enough," muttered McCoy in heavily accented Vulcan, eyeing the translator hidden in his sleeve.

The Vulcan arched an eyebrow. Then, he turned back to Kirk, his eyes falling on the claw marks on his chest. "The le-matya has poisoned you. Come with me."

McCoy turned, eyes narrowed. "Oh yeah? And how do we know we can trust you any more than those other hobgoblins?"

"Logically, it would be safer to follow a single 'hobgoblin' than to remain with three 'hobgoblins' and a le-matya. In addition, your companion is quite gravely wounded, and without immediate treatment, his wounds have a 98.98% chance of being fatal."

Kirk made eye contact with McCoy. McCoy sighed with resignation, then reached down to help his friend up. "All right," he sighed in Standard, pulling Jim to his feet. "Come on, Jim."

Without another word, the Vulcan led the way across the desert with the two men a little behind him, with Jim leaning on McCoy for support. At one point, Jim opened his mouth, leaned over, and took in a breath to speak to the Vulcan. McCoy silenced him with a look.

"Don't waste your breath," he warned. "If you pass out on me, I'll be forced to carry you."

Jim opened his mouth to assure McCoy that that wouldn't be necessary, but McCoy again silenced him with a look. The Vulcan glanced behind his shoulder and continued on.

As they continued on, the forms of great, craggy boulders rose into view. Within the rocky ring was the mass of a building, low to the ground, monasterial, cut out in rough planes. Looking back to make sure the two were following, the Vulcan walked to the door, took out a key, and slid it in. The door opened with a creak. McCoy and Jim exchanged a glance. Simultaneously, they pulled up their hoods, concealing their ears and eyebrows. Then, they cautiously entered.

The hallway was cool, with primitive orbs of electricity illuminating symbols and runes etched into the earthen walls. Taking one of the orbs from the wall, the Vulcan led them through a corridor, down a flight of stairs, and through another corridor. Opening the door, he gestured for them to enter the small circular room, the light glowing in his face.

Supporting Jim with one arm and glancing at the wrist translator fastened to the other, McCoy turned to face the Vulcan. "All right, would you care to tell us where the hell we are?"

"You are in the T'Karath Sanctuary," he replied, fitting the orb of light into a round ceiling fixture. "Whether or not you are of the rebels, you have no cause for fear. Both of you are safe here and may take shelter in my Sanctuary for as long as you wish."

The man's words and baritone voice soothed Kirk, who relaxed a little against McCoy. Sensing Kirk's limbs loosening, McCoy quickly reached out with his other arm.

"I'm fine, Bones," stated Kirk, wearily but firmly.

The Vulcan opened a latch in the wall and took out two mattresses, unrolling them on the ground. As McCoy lowered Kirk down onto one of them, the Vulcan strode out of the room, promptly returning with a tray of earthen jars and a bowl of water. He knelt on one side of the man, while McCoy knelt on the other, eying the Vulcan carefully as he began to mix herbs.

"Korash," the Vulcan explained without looking up. "The only known antidote to the le-matya's venom."

He dipped his fingers into the mixture, then skillfully began to apply it on Kirk's wounds. Kirk gritted his teeth and a hiss escaped his lips, but already, he felt a pleasant coolness soothing the heat and sting of his wounds. He closed his eyes. Along with the tingling on his chest, he grew keenly aware of something else. As the Vulcan's cool fingers graced his burning skin, a fresh warmth washed through his body, so different than the poison and fever spiking his blood. His mind vibrated, as if a sublime note had played and his soul resonated in response, completing a chord of wondrous harmony.

The Vulcan's fingers lifted, and Kirk's eyes flew open. The Vulcan gazed into his eyes, and he looked straight back. They blinked at each other for several moments.

His angular face slid out of Kirk's vision, replaced by the glowing electricity orb on the ceiling. Squinting against it, Kirk listened to the soft clatters as the Vulcan gathered up his jars.

"I have treated his wounds, but he is severely dehydrated and he is running a fever," said the Vulcan. "You must allow him to rest."

"God, the day I see him resting is the day I retire," McCoy declared. "Because then I'll know I've gone crazy." He looked up at the Vulcan. "Well, I suppose I've got to thank you," he said more gently. "You saved our lives."

"It was logical," he replied.

Setting aside the water bowl for Kirk and picking up the tray, he rose to leave. Kirk turned his head.

" _Pen-ni-bek._ Wait."

In the doorway, the Vulcan paused and turned. The light softened the lines of care in his face. " _Ha_?"

"You've never told us who you are."

"My name is Spock."

"I am Captain James T. Kirk." He smiled. "Good night, Mr. Spock."

He dipped his head. "I will see you tomorrow, Captain."

The door shut softly.

McCoy gazed at the closed door for a long moment. Then, he turned back to Kirk. However, Kirk's eyes had already closed.

* * *

Let me know what you think! :)


	3. The Needs of the Many

Kirk awoke several times during the night, but the mattress was soft and the sanctuary cool, and the bowl waited within reach whenever his throat gasped for water. Eventually, he sank into a deep sleep.

When he awoke in the morning, McCoy was sitting upright on his own mattress, reading a book. Kirk lifted his head experimentally. Only mild pain shot through his head as he did.

McCoy appeared by his side.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, reaching forward to feel Kirk's forehead. "Your fever has certainly gone down."

"I'm much better," replied Kirk. He tested his limbs. "I'm sore everywhere, but my throat no longer feels like Vulcan's Forge." He winced a little, realizing how apt the common expression was. "How about you?"

"Also horribly sore, but nothing that won't go away eventually." He handed Kirk the bowl of water, and as Kirk sipped from it, he explained, "I went to the dining room to get more water this morning. Ran into that Vulcan what's-his-face, and—"

"Spock," Kirk supplied, handing back the bowl.

"Yeah, him. He says that he'll be serving breakfast in about an hour."

"Him?" Kirk inquired. "Does he run this place?"

"It sure looks like it. All the Vulcans stop and nod at him as he goes through the hall."

"Really," he mused. "That kind of courtesy is strange for pre-Surak Vulcan."

"Yeah, tell me about it," replied McCoy, gingerly feeling a scrape on his shoulder.

"He must be a highly respected individual."

McCoy nodded. "I could hardly believe it, but the Vulcans I saw looked worse than we do. Ripped clothes, faces covered with fresh wounds."

"Spock said it's a sanctuary of some sort. And he mentioned something about rebels."

"This must be a place for refugees. After all, we've landed right before the Week of Uprisings."

Jim chuckled. "Our luck." He rose, gathering up the extra clothes he had packed for the customary post-funeral supper. "Well, if we have an hour, I think I'll go wash up. Do you know where I can go?"

Heading back to his own mattress, McCoy replied, "Right down the hall." The doctor met his eyes. "They don't have much water, so you'd better not use it all up if you don't want our host disapproving."

"I won't." He smiled. "Thanks, Bones."

* * *

Jim emerged from the water chamber freshly washed, grime scrubbed off and wet hair groomed back. He gingerly pulled his tattered golden cloak over his fresh tunic, carefully tugging the hood over his eyebrows and ears.

The halls were peaceful and quiet, illuminated by skylights, and the earthen walls glowed in the morning sun. Other Vulcans occasionally passed him, acknowledging him with a glance. Their eyes held mild curiosity at his attire, but no judgment, and certainly nothing akin to malice. These Vulcans felt much more like those he knew.

He found his mind going back to his own time. Bones obviously knew what was going on and seemed sure that they would return, but for some reason, he wasn't saying anything more. Jim resolved to get the full story from Bones as soon as they had a moment.

Jim began heading down the steps. A shadow fell over the stairs.

"Greetings, Captain."

He turned back towards the threshold. A smile stretched across his face. "Mr. Spock."

The morning light fell on his tall, slender figure, sketching soft shadows in the folds of his blue tunic and in the angles of his face. He lifted his hand with his fingers separated in the middle. Blinking with surprise, Jim momentarily returned the gesture.

"I wasn't aware this greeting was used in…these parts," he commented, lowering his arm.

"It is a gesture bidding long life and prosperity," Spock replied, "used only in places such as this." He eyed Jim's robe. "Captain, I require your cloak."

Jim glanced down. "My cloak? Why?"

"As you will soon understand, it is for your own protection. Also, though I can return it to you later, I do believe you would prefer it if I supplied you with another one."

Jim chuckled. "I do believe you are correct, Mr. Spock." His fingers travelled to his hood. "However, I don't think I can—see, the thing is—"

Spock regarded him quizzically. Sighing with resignation, Jim pushed back one side of the hood, revealing his ears. Pressing his lips together, he watched Spock's expression. His brow lifted slightly.

"Fascinating," he declared.

When Spock offered no further reaction except a cool, steady gaze, Jim offered, "The le-matya got my ear."

Raising one eyebrow, Spock nodded. "I see. In that case, I applaud the le-matya's precision…" The hood fell away completely. His eyes travelled to Jim's other rounded ear, and the other eyebrow went up. "…and its appreciation of symmetry."

Jim shrugged out of his tattered robe, sheepishly handing the grimy, tattered golden fabric to the Vulcan. Spock took it and folded it carefully.

"I also require your companion's," he said.

"Come down with me," replied Jim, self-consciously tugging locks of hair over his ears.

Together, they went down the stairs, and Jim opened the door. When he saw Spock, McCoy instantly pulled his hood over his face and put away his book, rising to his feet.

"Well, look who it is," he declared in Standard. His eyes flickered over to Jim's exposed face, and his brow furrowed.

"Hand over your cloak, Doctor," said Jim.

"My cloak?" he echoed.

"He'll get us new ones, and he says it's for our own protection." McCoy eyed both of them cautiously. "That's an order."

McCoy sighed. He gingerly pulled off the cloak, ducking his head, and tossed the fabric to Jim. Jim folded it neatly, just as Spock had, and handed it to the Vulcan. The Vulcan nodded and took it with a veiled second look at McCoy's, then Jim's, ears.

Retreating out the door, Spock said, "I presume I will see both of you at breakfast."

"You can count on us," replied Jim, smiling.

"I do not doubt it." He nodded at McCoy. "Good morning, Doctor." He turned back to Jim. "Good morning, Captain."

They briefly met eyes. Then, Jim shut the door.

His hand lingered on the wood. McCoy, taking a seat once more, glanced up at him. Jim promptly turned and strode towards his own mattress, plopping down.

"All right, Bones, you have questions. I'll tell you now that I don't know the answers, but Spock says we'll understand soon, so that'll have to be good enough for now."

"I'm sure he has questions, too," replied McCoy. "Didn't he say anything about your face?"

"He said, 'Fascinating.'"

"Hmm." McCoy sighed. "Well, I guess we're lucky we ran into him. Him accepting us, even with us speaking a different language, our funny clothes, our appearances."

Jim nodded slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. "Yeah." He snapped his attention back to McCoy. "Bones, what's up our situation here? How long are we staying, and how are we getting back?"

Having anticipated this conversation, McCoy pursed his lips. "Well, Jim. I think you've figured out that we've travelled through a time portal."

"That much is obvious."

"I jumped in several minutes after you. The moment you jumped in…" McCoy took a breath. "Well, the entire planet disappeared."

Jim's brow furrowed. "What planet?"

"Vulcan."

"I…destroyed Vulcan?"

"There's more. When we tried to establish connection with the Enterprise, the ship was also gone, because without Vulcan's help, Earth never achieved interstellar travel."

"That makes sense," said Jim. "After all, it was Zefram Cochrane's first contact with the Vulcans that really got interstellar travel started on Earth."

"Yes. But there's one part I don't get. Somehow, without interstellar travel, humanity on Earth got wiped out."

Jim blinked, processing. "Two planets…"

"One's future affecting the other's."

"Like entangled particles across a distance."

"Their futures intertwined."

"Never and always touching and touched," murmured Jim. McCoy glanced at him. Jim continued, "So something I did—will do—is going to change the future, eventually leading to the destruction of Vulcan."

"Pretty much."

"God." Jim's chin sank onto his hands, his headache returning. "How much time do I have left to set this right?"

"About a week. Once we fix whatever it is and time proceeds in its normal flow, it'll recognize us as out of place in that place and time, and it'll sweep us back where we need to be. Like a body rejecting a foreign substance."

"Incredible," Jim murmured. "Bones, what is the event that changed history?"

"I have no idea, but I recorded the history going by on my tricorder. The sand got in it and it's broken. I'll need to fix it."

"I can't imagine I raised a revolution in the space of a week," Jim mused. "Or stopped one."

McCoy snorted. "I wouldn't put it past you. Well, who says it needs to be a whole revolution? It's the little things that change everything."

Just then, something slipped under the door. Both glanced over. Jim rose to pick up the folded fabric, shaking it out. They were two short sand-colored capes.

Jim gave McCoy a pointed look as if to say "I told you so" and tossed one to him. Catching it, McCoy returned the look with willful resignation. The two simultaneously pulled on their capes and tugged up the hoods, noting the ample fabric around their ears. They were thin and just the right size, resting lightly on their shoulders.

"I can live with this," McCoy admitted.

After a few minutes, they headed out the door to breakfast. The light now shone with a more intense red hue, the evenly spaced pinholes in the ceiling illuminating the hall. The two strode past the other Vulcans, glancing furtively around and often reaching up to readjust their hoods. Now that they wore more traditional Vulcan garb, the others hardly gave them a second look. As McCoy had said, many of the Vulcans wore ripped, tattered tunics, much like their own. Some were clearly injured, limping or relying on sticks. However, what struck Jim was how many Vulcans had their hoods up, shadowing their faces. In this sanctuary, he and McCoy hardly stood out. In fact, if they did stand out, it was rather for seeming more ordinary than the rest.

Jim and McCoy soon reached the end of the hallway, which branched into several more corridors. Jim stopped a Vulcan in a worn red cloak.

"Excuse me," he said in Vulcan.

The Vulcan paused and turned to them, revealing a worn-down, yet startlingly young and open face. "Yes?"

"Which way is the dining hall?"

"I am going there myself," he replied. "You may accompany me there."

"That would be great, thank you."

He led them into the wide center corridor. As they walked, he made conversation.

"You have recently arrived," he observed. "What do you go by?"

"I'm Captain, and he's Doctor," said Jim, gesturing at McCoy.

"Unusual names," he acknowledged. "I am Aravik. I have been here for six months."

"Six months?" echoed Jim. "That's quite a long time. The two of us only came last night. What is this place exactly?"

"It is, to most, a stopping-place and a sleeping-place. However, it is also sanctuary for those of us who have no other place to go: those of us whose homes have been destroyed, or those of us hunted by rival tribes. Refugees from all sides are accepted here."

"Refugees of the civil war," said McCoy in his accented Vulcan.

"Yes," said Aravik, his eyes bright. "He takes them all in."

"Who is he, exactly?" inquired Jim. "The man who runs this place."

"He is our great teacher."

"Great teacher?" repeated Jim.

Aravik nodded eagerly. "You will see soon. He is harsh, but logical and just." As they reached a large door, he concluded, "Spock will be a great figure in history, remembered for thousands of years."

He pushed open the door and allowed the two to pass through first. Nodding and thanking him, Jim and McCoy exchanged a hooded glance.

The dining hall was a room with a single long wooden table, with a high ceiling and double doors at the end leading to the outside. A stone counter sat on one end of the room, where Vulcans were preparing the meal in earthen bowls.

"The line begins here," said Avarik, gesturing. "I am on duty for serving the meal today. It was pleasant to meet you."

They returned his sentiment. He strode to the counter while they took their places in the line.

When it got to their turn, a Vulcan scooped soup into two bowls and handed it to them. They headed to the long table, where several Vulcans already sat, their posture impeccable as they talked quietly between spoonfuls.

Jim gestured to an empty spot between two groups of Vulcans, and McCoy nodded. They stepped up to the table.

"May we sit here?" Jim asked in Vulcan.

One of them turned. "Of course," the Vulcan said. "Join us."

The two settled down next to the group and began to eat. The soup was cool and light, settling comfortably in their stomachs.

As they ate, the Vulcan beside them turned towards them. "What are you called?"

Jim introduced them as he had earlier. Her eyebrows lifted at the unusual names, but like Aravik, she didn't comment.

"I am T'Prylla," she replied. "Aravik and I have been here for six months."

"We just met an Aravik," said McCoy. "He helped us get here. Nice young fellow. Would it happen to be the same one?"

Her lips touched on a smile. "I would hope so, because I don't believe I could manage two."

Simultaneously, she and Jim reached for an earthen jug. Their hands bumped. As Jim withdrew, T'Prylla briefly looked up at him. Then, she lifted the jug, pouring Jim and McCoy cups of water. "I presume you are new arrivals?" she said, handing them each a cup.

"Yes, we are," replied Jim. He took the cup. "Thank you."

"Then you are soon to witness something," she said. "Do not be alarmed. On our signal, you must duck under the table."

"Under the __table__?" inquired McCoy.

At that moment, a figure walked through the door. Jim turned. Spock had come. An immediate silence fell as all the Vulcans put down their spoons and nodded at him respectfully. He strode to the head of the table.

"Good morning," he greeted. "I presume that some of you have already met our new arrivals."

He nodded at Jim and McCoy.

"The rest of you are undoubtedly aware of the forthcoming procedure. Before anything further—"

A sharp knock sounded on the front door. Spock stopped speaking. T'Prylla looked at Jim and McCoy and gestured towards the floor.

"Now," she mouthed.

She slipped under the table and dug her nails into a section of the floor. She slid aside a panel, revealing a rough, shallow hole. Blinking, Jim and McCoy crouched down, crawling among the shoes and legs and squeezing themselves into the tight space. Several other Vulcans followed them and pressed against them. The panel slid back over them again and a lock clicked, sealing them in hot darkness.

For several moments, all they could sense was the breathing of the other Vulcans, loud and warm on their necks. The warm bodies pressing his limbs against his torso, Jim squeezed himself into the corner, pushing for a little more room. A cold, hard surface met the bones of his spine. He twisted around, and his groping hand felt something curved and metallic, likely a pipe.

Faintly, they heard the door creak open.

"My lords," they heard Spock greet in his even baritone.

A rough, low voice returned his greeting. "Assassin Spock."

Jim's entire body tensed, sending a hot rush of pain to his throbbing head.

"Yesterday evening," said another, deeper voice, "a group of two men attacked us. Did you succeed in luring them here?"

"I did."

Pain seared through Jim's body, but this time, through his heart. His lungs tightened.

When Spock spoke again, his voice was low. "They have been dealt with."

A pause.

"You have done well," acknowledged the deeper voice. "Here is your reward."

They heard a soft clatter as something changed hands, and Jim understood. As they completed their exchange with a few formalities, Jim leaned back against the hard metal of the pipe, his lungs released from the crushing pressure. As he breathed out softly, he felt a tingling in his mind and his body. For a moment, he had the strange sense that the relief he was feeling was not solely his own.

They heard the thud as the door shut. A key clicked into the lock and the panel slid open, and light and open air burst upon them.

The Vulcan lady said, "Brothers and sisters, you may return to your meal."

Amongst the other Vulcans, Jim and McCoy spilled out from the ground. As Jim pulled himself up to the bench, inhaling deeply, he looked up. Spock stood directly across them. He inclined his head, and the light from the high windows briefly flashed in his dark irises. His eyes winked with a steady danger.

"I now bid you an official welcome to T'Karath Sanctuary," he said.

* * *

After the meal, as McCoy returned to the room to work with his tricorder, Jim stayed back to help with the cleaning of the dishes. As they ran the dishes under water and wiped them with white rags, Jim turned to the lady next to him, the one they had met at breakfast.

"An assassin," he said. "Spock poses as an assassin for the dominating tribe."

T'Prylla dipped her head, putting aside one dish and taking a new one. "It is the perfect guise. He allows refugees into his sanctuary, then presents their clothing as if he has murdered them. It protects both him and those he assists."

"It's dangerous, though. If anyone found out—"

"—he would be killed. He does it nevertheless."

By then, Jim had stopped washing his bowl. "Why?"

She almost smiled. "Because the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."


	4. Dishonor

"I find him most uncommon," said Jim, settling on his mattress.

McCoy barely looked up from his work on the tricorder as he chucked the Vulcan history book towards Jim. Jim fumbled to catch it. "If your headache's not too bad, try to read up on this era on Vulcan. Let me know if you find anything."

After breakfast, the headache had returned, but Jim willfully ignored it. They spent the next hour or so working. Finally, McCoy threw down the tricorder with frustration. "God, I can't do anything without some decent tools."

Jim frowned at his reading. "I can't imagine what this focal point in time might be. There's got to be something significant that happened—"

McCoy looked up. "Or maybe it's something that didn't happen."

Jim blinked. "Bones?"

He set aside his tricorder. "Remember what you said about either starting or stopping a rebellion? What if your arrival prevents something from happening that otherwise would have happened?"

A knock sounded on their door. Jim sat upright.

"It is Aravik," called a voice. Jim and McCoy immediately snapped on the capes and hoods.

"Come in," Jim invited.

The door opened. The young Vulcan, red cloak freshly washed, said, "The session begins. We request your presence."

"Sorry, what session?" inquired Jim.

"I suppose you have not been told," he said. Though his expression maintained Vulcan composure, his voice and eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. "Taking residence here has certain regulations and requirements, and these sessions are foremost among them. Follow me."

Jim and McCoy exchanged a glance, then rose and joined him at the door.

A few minutes later, Jim, McCoy, and the other residents knelt in rows in a cool, dim earthen room. They all talked quietly amongst themselves, their voices echoing in the small space.

Jim leaned in towards McCoy. "You were saying that it might be something that didn't happen. What did you mean by that?"

McCoy inched his hooded head towards him. "I meant that your arrival might not have caused anything to happen, but prevented something important from happening."

Jim considered, then nodded slowly. "What's a huge event that happened around this time on Vulcan?"

"It could only be the Awakening," replied McCoy. "Somehow, because of your arrival, the Awakening—the rise of Surak, Vulcan turning to peace—that never happens."

"And so Vulcan destroys itself, just as Earth will," murmured Jim.

"That's a possibility, at least."

"But how does the destruction of Vulcan cause the destruction of—"

McCoy turned his attention back to the front of the room. Jim looked up. All around him, the murmur of conversation faded as Spock strode into the room. He knelt before them on a small square mat.

"Good morning."

The Vulcans' tunics rustled as they bowed as one. Beside them, Aravik bent down so far that his forehead nearly touched the ground. Jim moved his head downwards in respect, but dipping it too far hurt his head.

Spock continued, "The subjects at hand are distressing, and indeed, these are dark times. Brother wars against brother, and our planet is ruled by bloodshed and base Vulcan passions. We devote our resources to developing weaponry and to violence. Our actions thus breed war and terror in an unbroken cycle. Vulcans use the immense physical and intellectual capacity to inflict harm on one another."

The words, spoken so serenely and unequivocally, freed something in Jim's heart. He drew a long breath.

Spock looked into the eyes of his attentive audience. "However, we should not view the current state of our race as failure, but as potential. Consider what would result if we devoted the resources and energies we now waste on war and terror—"

A realization sparked in Jim's brain. "—and instead spent them on life," he concluded.

All the refugees turned to look at him. Spock's gaze fell on him, and they locked eyes. Jim felt suddenly short of breath.

"Yes," said Spock quietly, holding eye contact. After a beat of silence, he turned to look at the other refugees, and he continued to talk, speaking of science, analysis, and reason. He described a vision of Vulcan's future, a society upheld by logic, in which all Vulcans worked together as one. He spoke of using the calculations devoted to missile projectiles to one day launch Vulcans into space.

As Jim and McCoy filed out of the room with the rest of the refugees, Aravik strode up to them.

"Extraordinary, isn't it?" he said, eyes alight.

They both nodded. "Very," murmured Jim.

The look on Aravik's face was one Jim had last seen on fresh cadets from Starfleet Academy's recent graduation. Their wide, wondrous eyes were not yet narrowed with cynicism and loss.

Dipping his head to acknowledge them, Aravik turned to the corner to his own quarters. Jim and McCoy exchanged a long look.

"That's it, then," whispered McCoy. "Without Vulcan, there was no interstellar travel on Earth. Without interstellar travel, all of the resources that could have gone into science instead went to war. Humanity destroyed itself."

Jim nodded slowly. "I find him most uncommon," he repeated contemplatively.

* * *

At the second meal, it was McCoy's turn to help prepare and serve. Jim, sorely needing a break from their research, accompanied him to give him a helping hand. He picked up the tricorder and tucked it under his tunic, just in case anyone happened to peek into their room.

As they walked down the hall towards the dining room, the sounds of a loud altercation reached their ears. Exchanging a glance, they broke into a run, pattering up the stairs and opening the door. Jim found his hand traveling to his belt for his absent phaser.

The scene that greeted them was stranger than any they had anticipated. Aravik stood facing T'Prylla in the middle of the dining hall, with all the other Vulcans retreated at the sides of the room. Her dark green robes were ripped and trailing sand.

"It is not logical," he stated, his voice raised. His shoulders trembled slightly, the crumpled cloak draped over them shot through with blood.

"No," T'Prylla acknowledged, eyes flaring. "It is not. I never said it was."

"You dishonor this sanctuary. You dishonor he who has done so much for both of us. You dishonor Spock's teachings."

She looked him in the eye, nodding slowly. "If you call it that, yes, yes, I do."

At that moment, a door at the end of the corridor burst open. Everyone turned towards it. Spock, black cape billowing, strode down towards them.

"What is the disturbance?" he inquired.

Aravik drew in a breath. In Spock's presence, his hands began to shake. He and T'Prylla both turned towards their teacher. T'Prylla glanced at the young man, but he pursed her lips and looked away. Taking a steadying breath, T'Prylla began to speak.

"Sir," she explained carefully, "during the meal, we discovered that the water was not flowing. After the meal, Aravik went to the oasis to check the pipes. It was dangerous, you see, with the sun already risen, and him traveling alone in the light. When he was late to return, I grew anxious, and I went out in search of him. He had been kidnapped by a slave trader. Aravik and his captor were traveling back to the main camp." She took a deep breath. "I shot him from afar."

Spock's shoulders straightened. "You murdered a defenseless Vulcan?"

"It is against your teachings," she acknowledged. "The slave trader had already put his brand around his wrist, so had the slave trader lived, he would have forever been his legal property. In addition, if he had recognized him…" She trailed off.

Spock was silent. Then, he looked at Aravik. "Aravik, is what she is saying true?"

He turned her eyes down. "It is true," he replied quietly. "I was unconscious. As she carried me back, she took off her own cloak and wrapped me in it so I would not be recognized."

"If he kidnapped him as a slave, it is likely he did not recognize him as a radical. It is also likely that if you returned here, you would never encounter the slave trader again," said Spock.

She nodded. "Yes. That would be likely. However, if given the opportunity, I would do that, and more, if it meant ensuring Aravik's safety and freedom."

Spock regarded the pair. "You are aware of the consequence of murder in my Sanctuary?" He paused. "More importantly, are you aware that your action endangered the entire Sanctuary?"

Aravik turned his gaze to Spock's eyes. "Sir, I am well aware that it is illogical. However, I would have done the same for her."

For a moment, everyone was still. All the Vulcans silently looked toward Spock, waiting for his word.

Finally, he said simply, "T'Prylla, your actions have brought dishonor and danger to everyone here. You will not be brought sustenance or receive visitors until I have made a decision about your state. Return to your quarters and remain there."

T'Prylla looked at Aravik one last time. She murmured, "Are you okay?"

He nodded. "I am okay."

She turned. As she went past Aravik, Jim noticed her discreetly extend two fingers, and he subtly returned the gesture. The pads of their fingers brushed as she walked out through the gathered crowd, disappearing through the door.

Spock addressed the refugees. "The meal will proceed as scheduled. I expect to see you there soon."

He turned, his cape rippling behind him. He strode up the length of the room and opened the door.

A sharp rap sounded on the door. Spock stood upright, his attention snapping back across the room. All the Vulcans around the room froze.

Spock didn't even turn. "Refugees, conceal yourselves. The rest of you, go about your usual business."

Wordlessly, the Vulcans dispersed, some heading swiftly to the benches and others noiselessly gathering behind the counter. As spoons and bowls whipped out from cabinets, a group of refugees flocked to the table. Aravik crouched underneath, pushing aside the slab. In a horde of elbows and knees, Kirk and McCoy crawled underneath and crowded into the hot, airless space as the slab grated shut above them. With the click of a lock, the darkness breathlessly swallowed them up.

Above ground, Spock turned to survey the Vulcans at work at the counter and muttering tensely at the tables. Straightening his shoulders, he coolly strode towards the door and opened it.

At the sight that greeted him, his body tensed. A party of close to twenty Vulcans faced him, dressed in rough tunics, daggers gleaming at their thighs. Spock firmly set his mouth and fixed his eyes onto the man at the head of the group. The angry pink scars along his exposed shoulder denoted his high rank.

"Good day," he greeted evenly.

The leader met his eyes sharply. "Assassin Spock," he said in a gravelly voice. "An hour ago today, we found my brother killed. My comrades report seeing a woman fleeing the scene."

Spock's expression remained unflinching. "I extend my condolences. Who is this woman you speak of?"

"That is what we want you to explain," replied the man, his eyes gripping Spock's. "According to all accounts, the woman is exactly identical to the radical T'Prylla, whom we ordered you to assassinate six months ago."

Spock dipped his head, jaw tight. "As I did. You say this woman was exactly identical?"

His nostrils flared, and his eyes blew wide with fury. "I say that you are a liar and a cheat, and you are harboring T'Prylla—and maybe others—here in your sanctuary!"

In the hot, tight silence that followed, Spock heard the sounds of bowls clattering and spoons stilling as the Vulcans behind him stopped what they were doing. Clasping his hands behind his back, he made a small signal for them to resume their activities.

"I understand that you are distressed over the death of your brother, and again, I extend my condolences," Spock said, attuning one ear to the continuing clanks and rattles behind him. "However, I entreat you to think through this logically. If this woman were fleeing, as you described, the men likely were unable to clearly see her face. It is highly probable that their impression of her features were mistaken."

"You can say what you like, with your logic and your reason," the leader returned, his hot breath steaming on Spock's face. "However, we have come to investigate ourselves."

Spock's lips tightened. He dipped his head. "Please."

The leader gestured over his shoulder and strode into the sanctuary, pushing Spock aside. Clad in rough, sandy tunics, they swarmed into the sanctuary like locusts. They seized upon the Vulcans at the table, tying lengths of rope around their wrists, while a few more fanned out to the counter and tore away the Vulcans they there. Spock stepped forward, but the leader shoved him roughly back against the wall, pressing a dagger against his throat.

The warriors pushed the innocent Vulcans against the side wall, one or two men per Vulcan, gripping their bound arms. The men and women struggled against them helplessly. The leader walked down the line, carefully inspecting each face. He stopped before one Vulcan, grabbing his chin and looking him up and down. Finally, he let go and continued his walk.

After several rounds, he stopped in front of Spock. "If you confess now, we will spare your life."

Spock lifted an eyebrow. "While it is a tempting proposition, I am afraid that I have nothing to confess."

"Begin the search!" growled the leader.

* * *

The refugees, huddled in the crowded space, listened to the noise of heavy boots, cabinets slamming, and shouted orders. Jim sucked in the hot, moist air through his nostrils, and his lungs gasped for more. Sweat crawled over his skin, and he felt his joints and collar growing slick.

A thud sounded above him as the warriors lifted and dropped an object in search. Jim shifted his position, fighting for relief for his cramped joints. His arm ended up pressed against a Vulcan's torso, and he felt the hard hammer of a heartbeat. He wasn't sure whether it was the Vulcan's or his own.

He attempted to draw a deep breath, and his chest tightened. The noise of footfalls sounded right above them. The refugees pressed together in the sticky heat, holding their breaths until the footfalls passed.

Above them, they heard a voice report, "We've found nothing, sir."

"Then continue searching," the leader ordered gruffly.

* * *

As Spock looked on, pinned against the wall by a swordswoman, they swarmed out the door into the halls. The remaining men crawled all over the dining area, inspecting each crack in the wall and every small opening.

The leader stood at the other side of the doorway from Spock. Without turning his head, Spock glanced swiftly sideways. The man's brow deepened in mounting fury, and the muscle in his jaw throbbed.

A group of warriors swarmed through the door and spread into the kitchen for the third time, opening cabinets and sweeping through them. Turning his eyes away, Spock looked over at the men and women lined up against the wall. Their faces remained stoic, but they trembled against the blades held up to their necks.

A crash. His eyes snapped back to the kitchen in time to see their earthenware bowls shattering to the floor. Sweeping out of the kitchen, three of the tribesmen strode grimly out of the wreckage up to their leader.

"We have searched the entire sanctuary, sir," one woman said quietly. "There are no doors or possible escape routes. We can only assume that Assassin Spock was truthful."

From the corner of his eye, Spock watched as a green flush rose from the leader's neck up to his face, exploding in verbal rage. "This is the only habitable place for miles around!" he roared. "Where else could anyone be? Where?"

"Sir."

At the calm voice, the woman, the leader, and Spock all turned. Spock's chest tightened. A tribesman knelt by the table, holding up a triangular earthenware shard.

"When the bowls shattered, a few shards fell into this crack here, sir. I think you should come and take a look."

Spock clasped his hands tightly behind his back, suppressing the tremble rising through his body. He drew in a long breath as the leader made his way over to the table. The leader stopped beside his tribesman, exchanged a few muttered words, then ducked under the table.

He rose from the ground with a sharp intake of breath. His eyes pierced Spock's. "A keyhole."

"It may be," replied Spock, his voice quiet with the effort of keeping it steady. "The door has been there since before I arrived. I am afraid that I do not know how to open the door or the purpose of it being there."

The leader raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Spock tightly dipped his head. "I wish I could tell you otherwise."

"Very well." He turned and gave his men a signal. Nodding, they turned to the innocents and began to press the daggers against their necks.

As the cries and muffled pleas welled up around him, the leader turned to Spock and smiled. "Unless you open this door for me," the leader stated, "your little guests die."

* * *

Well, this is as much as I've posted on AO3! From now on, I'll be updating simultaneously. :) I hope you've enjoyed the story so far! Callie out.


	5. Melting Point

Two chapters for this update! :)

* * *

All around him, Jim felt the air sucked thin. Hot bodies trembled against his, and the noise of shallow breathing pinched the darkness.

His heart pounding, Jim strained to hear the voices from above. He heard one of the innocents cry out. He instinctively pulled backwards, and the cold, hard water pipe pressed against his spine.

Aravik had gone to turn the water on. He never made it to the Oasis—

He never made it to the Oasis.

Another innocent cried out. A pang of cold desperation seared through his chest, so powerful that left him reeling giddily. The fear both came from inside himself and from somewhere else, somewhere he could not define.

The world rushed back in on him. The darkness, the heat, and above him, Spock's silence. As the silence persisted, Jim felt his hands clenching outside his own will.

"Open the door, Spock," the leader demanded.

Jim sprang into action. Feeling the hard rectangular shape of the tricorder digging against his thigh, he twisted around to reach it. He ripped it out from under his belt. His hands fumbled over it, turning it to rest facing up on his bunched knees. Using his nail, he dug his thumbnail into the little latch and pried it up. The backing fell to the ground with a clatter.

"What the hell are you doing, Jim?" whispered McCoy, arm pressing against his.

Jim wriggled his arm free and reached forward. He felt the curved shape of the water pipe with both hands. Then, he paused to think.

He recalled the flash of light on Aravik's wrist. He lowered his voice.

"Aravik."

"Yes?" The voice was a hair above silence.

"Give me your bangle."

"It was a gift from T'Prylla."

"Please. I need your bangle."

* * *

Against the wall, the innocents gasped for air, writhing for relief against the merciless blades. Dark green blood glittered on the edges of the blades, trickling down their necks and staining the collars of their cloaks.

"Please," Spock said. His throat was tight, and the word came out low and hoarse. "They have done nothing wrong. Stop this."

"It is not us you should be asking," the leader replied. "All you have to do is open that door."

"I cannot," he insisted. "I do not have the key."

"You must open that door!"

Spock took a few steps towards the leader, then halted again. Though the rest of his face remained stoic, when the light dazzled in his eyes, it was clear that his pupils had blown wide with fear.

Behind him, the innocents started choking.

"You must open that door!"

* * *

Spock's baritone and the leader's heavy bass rose and fell above him, punctuated by the choking, pitching into screams. Jim gripped the warm, sweat-slick metal bangle in his hands.

The material the pipe was made of—he had encountered it before, in a laboratory class at the Academy. What was it exactly that grey-haired professor had said?

He felt Aravik's bangle bending in his hands. The metal cut into his palms, and hot blood rose in his clenched fists. Still, he persisted until the metal band was entirely straight.

The professor had done a demonstration with a small cube of material and a Bunsen burner, his low, gruff voice explaining, __The relatively low melting point comes at a great advantage for Vulcan architectural work, as this material essentially turns to putty when it's sufficiently heated, making it exceptionally malleable…__

Twisting around, he felt for the pipe. He placed one end of the metal strip on the pipe and quickly looped the metal around it, creating a tight coil wrapped around the pipe. Then, groping for his tricorder, he carefully touched the open battery pack to the tip of the metal strip.

Electricity sizzled. He felt all the refugees turning for the source of the sound. He gripped the tricorder in his hands, pushing the sounds of the screaming innocents out of his mind.

His hands grew hotter and hotter. He felt the heat crawl up his arms and up his neck. In the darkness, the coil started to pulse with a red glow. His hands shook and his heart pounded.

Another scream. Spock was running out of time.

* * *

The innocents cried all around him. Unable to bear any more, Spock shut his eyes. Slowly reopening them, he took a deep breath.

"Please," he entreated again, his voice threatening to shake. "They are innocent. Free them."

"Where is T'Prylla?" growled the leader.

"She is dead. I murdered her."

The leader shook his head. He turned to his men. "We will give him one more minute. Then, slit their throats."

* * *

Jim's heart thundered in his throat. His hands shook violently, but he held the tricorder firmly in place. The glow grew more and more intense, crowding the refugees' faces with red terror.

Back at the Academy lecture hall, that girl with the long antennae had raised her hand.

 _ _Vulcan is extremely hot, no? If the melting point is so low, wouldn't the heat cause frequent damage to this material?__

 _ _Excellent question. When it's used in infrastructure, an additional coagulant is added to this metal so that if any damage is done to it, it repairs itself almost immediately.__

An unmistakable drip. Jim sucked in a breath. More and more drips followed. Yanking the metal strip off the pipe, he reached forward. He had melted a decent sized hole in the water pipe.

Two screams sounded at once. Spock's minute would soon be up. His heartbeat escalated, and his breaths came short. His chest tightened around his lungs.

In his raw hyperconsciousness of fear, he felt a searing in his body. All of a sudden, he felt his thoughts and senses merge with a live, thrumming consciousness.

 _"_ _ _Half a minute, Spock!"__

He heard the voice both above and within. The breath caught twice in his lungs.

"Everybody, into the pipe!" Jim hissed. He reached out, grabbing the nearest refugee, and pushed him towards the hole. A rip of fabric tore through the silence. Jim winced, and everyone tensed. When no sounds came from above, the refugee fought her way in, and the next refugee struggled forward.

 _"_ _ _Your time is running out, Spock!"__

The voice, above and within. Jim's chest clenched as a live pattern of thoughts lit up in his brain in bright bursts.

The next refugee, and the next, crawled into the narrowing space, the hole already shrinking smaller and smaller as the pipe resealed itself. Jim pushed each of them in.

Then: _"_ _ _Your time is up, Spock. Decide."__

Jim saw a vivid flash of green blood flowing freely from pale Vulcan necks. He felt hands gripped tightly behind the back, nails cutting into flesh.

The refugees squeezed into the pipe, crawling down its length, one after the other. Jim shut his eyes.

 _ _Spock.__

* * *

The leader strode down the dining hall, stopping right in front of Spock. His hot, moist breath prickled Spock's face.

"Will you open the door?" he asked.

 _ _Spock.__

The innocents screamed behind him. Spock's breaths came shallow, and the blood rushed in his ears. A strong, steady heartbeat pulsed through his thoughts, and his eyes shut again.

 _ _Spock. Open the door.__

A golden warmth washed through his body, seeping through his heart and all of his veins.

 _ _Jim.__

 _ _Open the door, Spock.__

Taking a deep breath, Spock opened his eyes. He spoke before he understood what he was saying.

"Yes."

* * *

The refugees crowded the shrinking opening, anxious to enter the pipe. They trembled and pressed close together.

They heard the jingle of keys, and the approaching of heavy footsteps. Jim ushered them inside, urging them on quietly.

He heard the voices crescendo above him. Jim drew in a deep breath, and he felt the pulsing of his heart intertwining with another beat. There was a click as the key entered the keyhole.

* * *

Spock knelt under the table with the leader hovering above him, his robes pooling around him. Drawing one last deep breath, he twisted the key and slid the slab aside.

He sucked in a breath. Save for the water pipe, the compartment was entirely empty.

He regained his composure quickly. Rising, he turned to face the leader. "As you can see, I was telling the truth," he said. "I am harboring no one here. I was previously unaware of this compartment's existence. It was pure fortune that this key worked, for it is merely a key I found among the others when I first came to the Sanctuary."

The leader stared at him for several moments. "We found nothing this time," he stated. "However, we will return. Expect us again soon."

Spock dipped his head. "I anticipate your return."

The leader looked at him hard for another moment. He turned away, and gesturing over his shoulder, strode to the door. All the warriors fell into line after him, and as Spock watched from the doorway, the beige swarm vanished into the desert.

As soon as they had disappeared into the desert horizon, Spock turned away from the door to the innocents, still huddling against the wall.

"The most badly injured, go to the medical wing. The rest of you, go back to your quarters."

Hushed and gasping, the masses dispersed, some clutching at their throats, others supporting their friends. Spock gazed out, watching them go. Then, he strode quickly over to the doorway. He scanned the desert one last time, confirming that it was empty, then shut the door. He walked over to the open compartment, peering down.

"Brothers and sisters?" he said, voice raised. There was no response. He looked around the space for some clue as to their escape, but he found none. "Brothers and sisters?"

"After that ordeal, we are now," said a voice.

Spock turned, and he found his breath catching in his throat. The captain stood before him in his sandy cape and soft golden tunic. His hair was tousled and his smile exhausted, but he stood up as tall as Spock had always seen him. Regarding his figure, the golden light he had felt earlier resurged inside him, stronger than ever.

"The refugees are safe," said Jim. "They're in the water room. My doctor friend is with them."

"I must say I cannot understand how—"

"There was something that I felt inside me—"

They spoke at once, then both broke off. Jim's mouth twitched in a soft laugh, and he glanced away.

"Let's not talk about any of it right now. I'll help you clean up."

The red afternoon light edged the scattered pottery shards. As Jim knelt down to scoop them into his palms, Spock opened his mouth, about to insist that he could do it himself, to tell him to return to his quarters and rest. None of these words came. Wordlessly, he knelt beside Jim as the thundering heartbeats—and the sharp golden light—fell away.


	6. Rather the Opposite

By evening, the dining hall had resumed something of its old shape. In cracked bowls, glued pottery shards, jugs, and wash buckets, the least injured Vulcans served a meal of soup and loafs. They huddled together for supper, gradually filling the hall with sounds of life.

Spock strode through the door, returning from bringing bowls to the medical wing. The murmurs ceased and heads rose.

"Good evening," he greeted.

They returned the sentiment, voices strong with the familiarity of ritual.

"We have been through a difficult experience today and it has been a trying day for all of us."

The residents murmured in assent.

"There are some details on which I am still unclear—" His eyes fell on Jim's. "—and I believe now would be a suitable time to discuss what exactly happened."

All eyes turned to Jim. He looked around, then found Spock's eyes again. The Vulcan nodded. Jim put down his spoon and slowly rose.

"There's a water pipe in the compartment," he said. "Quite wide, leading through the building. T'Prylla had a metal bracelet, and I used it create a coil around the pipe. When I connected the end of the coil to an electronic device I had—"

"…it created an electromagnetic field," surmised Spock. "It heated the metal to a critical point and melted it."

Jim blinked. He nodded slowly. "Yes."

"Forgive my interruption," Spock apologized. "Continue."

"That's the whole of it," said Jim, his eyes still on Spock's. "The hole sealed itself behind us, and we crawled along the pipe up to the basin in the water room." He hesitated. "And, because Spock and I were in-communication, that's when he opened the door."

As he concluded the story, the refugees' gazes never left him, but all he felt were Spock's eyes on his. The Vulcan drew a breath and nodded.

"Ingenious," he said. "You have our gratitude."

Jim nodded and settled back onto the bench, squeezing between two Vulcans. Spock continued, "Now, I must make myself clear on two points. Firstly, they may return at any time. Whenever you leave your quarters, hide your personal belongings."

The refugees nodded solemnly.

"Secondly…" He drew a breath. "None are permitted to visit T'Prylla under any circumstances. She is to be confined in her room until I reach a decision."

Jim looked up. However, Spock's face was unreadable.

The residents exchanged a glance. Then, they dipped down to commence the meal.

* * *

As evening approached, more and more Vulcans returned from the medical wing, either retiring to their quarters or going to the kitchen to help with makeshift bowls and utensils. When Jim figured that the medical wing would be mostly empty, he slipped down the hall and through the medical wing door.

He passed into a room illuminated by gentle evening light. A young Vulcan stood stocking shelves. The mattresses on the floor were mostly empty, save for the one occupied by Aravik on the other side of the room. McCoy knelt beside him, wrapping a bandage around his wrist.

At Jim's footsteps, McCoy looked up, his eyes bright and tired. "Jim."

"Sorry to bother you, Bones," he said, settling onto a mat. He opened his clumsily bound hands. "I just need to get my hands fixed up."

"Yeah, sure," he said, turning back to the bandaging. "Just give me a moment to savor the fact you came in here on your own free will."

McCoy shortly finished with Aravik, then walked over to Jim. He undid the cloth binding the captain's palms.

"My God, man, why didn't you come in earlier?" he demanded, pulling the blood-soaked cloth away to reveal deep red slashes in Jim's flesh.

"Firstly, I didn't want to be clogging up the medical wing, and secondly—" He glanced back at the young assistant, only to find that he was staring right back at him with his mouth open. Noticing the two looking, he quickly ducked his head and continued sorting the herbs on the shelf, sneaking one last look at the unmistakably red blood on the bandages.

Jim and McCoy simultaneously looked at the crimson cloths pooled on the ground.

"Oh. Well," said McCoy. He balled up the bloody cloths and wrapped them in clean gauze to hide them. Then, sighing, he reached for a salve and applied it to Jim's wounds. He neatly bound them, carefully concealing the red lines.

Jim looked up at the assistant. "I have a blood disease," he supplied.

"Sit tight here for another ten minutes," instructed McCoy. "See if the bandages hold. I'm going to go wash our equipment." He headed to the door and glanced back at the assistant. "Coming?"

The man nodded, put away a few jars, and followed him out the door.

Jim lay back against the mattress. As his stiff muscles relaxed into the ground, he grunted loudly in pain. Aravik, in the middle of ripping a bandage off a raw, bleeding wound, glanced over at him. Jim turned his head and shut up.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Aravik minister to his wounds. Aravik quickly ripped off the old bandages and bound his injuries with fresh ones. He winced occasionally, but he remained impressively silent and his face betrayed no pain. Jim couldn't tell whether the impassiveness was due to shock or to being Vulcan.

He sat up and turned to Aravik. "Those look pretty nasty," he said. "Are you all right?"

"They are large, but shallow," Aravik replied. "The pain is not great. How are you?"

He looked down at his bandaged hands. "I'm all right. Just some cuts."

They sat in silence for a while. Then, he said, "The Doctor is your friend?"

"He's a physician. We've…travelled together." He studied Aravik's bandages. "You seem pretty skilled. Are you a doctor, too?"

"No, though I suppose I am now. I was a technician. I only learned medicine when I fled my home and I needed to acquire the skill."

"What happened?"

Aravik drew a breath. "My mother participated in a plan to assassinate the tribe's leader. When it failed, they discovered her part in it, and my family had to split up and hide."

Jim looked away. "I'm sorry."

Aravik's eyes screwed shut. His fists briefly clenched before he eyes opened again, and he quickly regained his composure.

Jim frowned. "Aravik, are you all right?"

He nodded stiffly. "Yes, thank you." As he said so, he winced again.

Jim began to get up. "I'll get McCoy."

"No."

The conviction of Aravk's voice made him turn. "But your wounds—"

"It is not my wounds." He shut his mouth immediately after saying that, but had no choice but to continue. "It is rather…internal pain," he finished. When Jim still remained with his hand on the door, he sighed. "A man such as you would not understand."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"It is something T'Prylla told me. You likely do not recall, but she accidentally bumped your hand as she reached for a water jug at breakfast."

Aravik looked up at him, and he shook his head, indicating that he had no recollection.

Aravik continued, "She said that she did not sense much, as you heavily guard your thoughts. According to T'Prylla, the shields on your thoughts are stronger than those of many here. However, she immediately felt that you have absolutely no comprehension of this."

His brow furrowed. "Of what?"

His voice grew quieter. "T'Prylla. In my body, I feel the living pattern of her thoughts."

Jim slowly nodded. "Oh."

"She is alone, confined to her room without food, deeply distressed: shock, guilt, horror, fear." He looked down. "I can feel her, but she cannot touch me."

"I'm sorry," Jim said gently.

"I do not believe you understand, but thank you."

They sat in silence. Jim opened his mouth, then closed it. Aravik looked over at him, but he didn't speak.

After a few moments, he drew a deep breath. "Aravik?"

He turned to Jim. "Yes?"

"What's it like?" he asked quietly.

The Vulcan thought. His face was drawn, yet sharp in profile.

"Is it too complicated to explain?"

He immediately shook his head. "No. It is rather the opposite." He paused. "It is a simple feeling."

* * *

The sanctuary had already grown lively again by breakfast. While McCoy helped with serving, Jim sat down, greeting the Vulcans around him. They returned his courtesy, then returned to their conversation.

"According to logic, saving one life and endangering a number of others is a mistaken endeavor," the Vulcan across him said.

Another Vulcan made a noise as he painstakingly detached a piece of bread. "Indeed," he said, prizing away a perfect rectangular piece. "Furthermore, it is uncertain whether or not the rescued one's life was truly at risk in the first place."

Jim's headache began to return at the realization of what the conversation was about, and at the thought of the conversation's subject. He ripped off a chunk of bread and chewed it thoughtfully.

"Then why do you hide in this sanctuary?" Jim inquired. "For some of you, it's likely that the tribe isn't even aware you exist. You come to this sanctuary because of the chance—the slight chance—that you're in danger."

"That is true," conceded the Vulcan across him. "However, in our particular case, our presence here does not endanger anyone."

Jim looked up. "It endangers Spock."

A bowl plunked down beside his. Squeezing onto the bench by his side, McCoy muttered, "That's enough."

At that moment, the room fell silent. Before Jim even turned, he knew the reason. The silence grabbed his breath and his heartrate quickened as he turned towards the tall, slender form at the head of the table.

Spock greeted them, and they returned the greeting. He said, "I am aware that the incident involving T'Prylla weighs on your minds."

All the Vulcans nodded.

"Once a decision is reached, I will inform all of you," he stated. "Until then, I remind you again that no one is permitted to visit T'Prylla in her chamber. Is that clear?"

The Vulcans murmured in assent. Spock dipped his head, bid them farewell, and disappeared through the door again.

Drawing in a quick breath, Jim lifted the bowl to his lips. Over the curved rim, he watched as the other Vulcans resumed their conversations. Then, with his other arm, he subtly nudged the bread off the table. He felt it land on the cloth napkin on his lap.

* * *

Reviews make my life. I hope you're enjoying this story so far!


	7. Oasis

Jim and McCoy worked on the tricorder through the afternoon. As evening approached, Jim told McCoy that he was going to fetch a bowl of water.

Taking the tricorder, McCoy looked up suspiciously. "Oh, yeah? And you're going to carry it back in that loaf of bread, aren't you?"

Jim glanced down at the loaf tucked under his arm. "Well—"

"Jim, Spock clearly said no one can visit T'Prylla," McCoy pointed out.

Jim looked away. "Spock doesn't need to know."

Upon slipping out of his room, he dropped by the infirmary to glean the location of T'Prylla's room. Then, bread tucked securely under his arm, he disappeared down a small corridor.

* * *

After a few minutes, he reemerged through a low, narrow door, shutting it securely behind him. He carefully reattached the ends of the circular padlock, and they snapped quietly back together.

"Captain, I must say that your lock manipulation technique is impeccable."

Jim turned around slowly. Spock stood behind him in his dark blue tunic, eyebrows raised.

Swallowing, Jim dipped his head. "Good evening, Mr. Spock."

Spock's expression did not budge. Jim met Spock's dark eyes.

Spock tilted his head forward. "I clearly forbade visiting T'Prylla. I even placed a lock on the door. Why did you do it?"

"There's no reason to treat her like that," said Jim. "Locking her up, depriving her of food and water."

"It is my policy for offenders."

"And why is that? Shouldn't the aim be to reform, not to punish?"

"While that is the case in ideal circumstances, reformative measures clearly cannot be afforded in our present situation," replied Spock. "The risk T'Prylla poses to the Sanctuary is too great. Furthermore, in order to better protect the refugees, we must establish an example of the importance of following policy."

Jim couldn't help the vast feeling of disappointment.

"This isn't about policy, Spock!" exclaimed Jim. "This is about decency and civilization. The way T'Prylla must feel—"

"Attempting to comprehend the emotional context only serves to confound logical decision making."

"Spock, it doesn't matter if you don't understand the emotional context," said Jim. "I don't quite understand it, either. Aravik told me I wouldn't understand what's between him and T'Prylla, and I guess she's right. All I know is that T'Prylla is in terrible pain, and they're both being torn apart by it."

His expression remained unflinching. "I do not see how that situation relates to you."

"Yes, you do," replied Jim quietly. "The day before yesterday, you rescued two men from the desert who otherwise would have died. You didn't understand them, either, but you helped them anyway."

Spock held his gaze in the silence. Jim tilted his head to search his eyes, but they were unreadable.

Spock finally dipped his head. "While you are misguided, I must concede that your statement is logical." Jim let out a breath. The Vulcan inclined his head to indicate that he wasn't quite finished. "However, you did violate my policies."

Jim nodded. "I'll take the penalty."

Spock's eyebrows lifted, and Jim could have sworn that the corners of his mouth tugged. "I am sure you are aware that the water pipe is broken."

"Yes, I'm quite aware," replied Jim, casting his eyes down.

"As penalty for violating my policies, you must accompany me to the oasis to carry water to the sanctuary every evening for a week."

Jim's mouth spread into a smile as he met Spock's eyes. "I think I can handle the extra commitment, Mr. Spock."

He arched an eyebrow. "I was not aware that you had a choice in the matter," he replied.

* * *

As the afternoon progressed to evening, the room grew cooler, and they continued work on the tricorder. The progress was slow and halting. Jim found his thoughts wandering and the tricorder stilling in his hands.

McCoy's eyes slid over to the tricorder resting on Jim's lap.

"You're pretty useless today, aren't you?" sighed McCoy, grabbing the tricorder from him. "You take the reading, I'll do the tricorder."

After an hour, a quiet knock sounded on their door. Jim rose.

"Come in," he called, straightening his garments.

Spock opened the door, dressed in a light cloak. "It is cool enough to go now," he said.

"Well, good evening to you, too," said McCoy, glancing up at Spock.

Spock acknowledged him with an eyebrow raise and a nod, then turned back to Jim. "Are you ready to come?"

Pulling on his cape, Jim smiled. "I thought you said I have no choice in the matter, Mr. Spock."

He joined Spock in the doorway. Spock began to close the door behind them. Then, as his eyes travelled downwards, his brows furrowed.

"Doctor," he said carefully, "what is…that?"

McCoy also looked down at the disemboweled tricorder in his lap, mouth drawn with resignation. "I don't even know anymore," he sighed.

* * *

Spock pushed the door open, and the two of them stepped from the red-lit hallway into the desert night. The horizon ahead glimmered purple in an echo of the sunset, illuminating the curves of the sand dunes. The warm desert breeze wrapped around them, stirring their cloaks and their hair.

The purple ribbon of the horizon unraveled into darkness, and the land around them folded itself into shadows. Buckets clattering quietly against their legs, the two walked to the oasis. Only the buckets, their soft footfalls in the sand, and the occasional animal call punctuated the vast desert silence.

"Spock," said Jim, "I have to apologize for the whole scene yesterday. It's your sanctuary. It's not really my place to tell you how to run it."

He didn't reply for a while. "I must admit that while I did not anticipate your actions, I was not entirely surprised by them," he said.

"Why?"

"You are not governed by logic. From what I have observed, you are irrational, effusively emotional, and impulsive."

Jim laughed. "Well, I'd say that's a fair assessment, Mr. Spock."

"I utterly fail to comprehend your thought process."

"Well, Mr. Spock," he said thoughtfully, "Maybe emotions are a form of logic, too."

As they continued walking, Jim found his thoughts going back to yesterday. The merging of consciousness, the warm feeling spreading within him—

"You do not belong here," stated Spock contemplatively.

Jim looked over at him. The shadows softened Spock's Vulcan profile, the defined nose and the line of his jaw. "Yeah?" he replied. "What makes you think that?"

Spock glanced at Jim's ears and eyebrows. "Beyond the obvious?"

He chuckled. "Sure."

When Spock spoke, Jim realized that the Vulcan, too, had been considering the previous day. "I was speaking your scientific knowledge and your vision of the future. You perceive and understand with unusual depth, and yet…" He thought, his brow furrowing. "There is something else that I have rarely encountered. Something I have difficulty describing."

He was silent for a moment, and the buckets clanked against his legs. "Where do you think I belong, Spock?"

The hush of the desert wind overtook the pair for a moment. "I wish I could say."

Ahead of them, a silvery light shimmered off of water, illuminating the slender grasses and water plants. Spock dipped his head.

"This is the Great Oasis."

The breeze blew on their faces, light and refreshing with moisture. As they stepped towards the glistening water, the grasses rustled against their legs. Insects hummed quietly around them, bright lights twinkling amongst the trees.

Jim stopped and took off his hood. "This is beautiful." The glow glimmered in his eyes.

Spock looked over to glimpse the open wonder on Jim's face. Then, turning away, he took a few steps towards the water and knelt down. Jim followed him, walking through the reeds to the edge of the pool. He knelt. His knees sank into the wet soil. Rolling up his sleeves, he dipped the first bucket into the water. The silvery water slipped over his hands and arms, delightfully cold.

They filled their buckets side by side. When their buckets brimmed with water, Jim looked over at Spock, waiting for him to rise. However, he made no move to leave. As Jim turned back to the water, he saw Spock looking towards him. The wind wrapped around them, and the insects hummed in the trees.

Wordlessly, Jim stood. He retreated to the tree at the water's edge, settling on a broad, flat rock nestled in the tree's roots. He heard a rustle of grass and footsteps in wet soil as Spock followed and sat beside him.

A streak of silver light glimmered on the water. As Jim stared at it, he grew aware of another inner light within him, deep inside his consciousness. The longer he gazed into the oasis, listening to the wind and waters, the more he felt himself opening, falling away.

"Spock."

The Vulcan turned his sharp, slender face to Jim. The light from the water lingered in his hair.

"Telepathy among your people is only possible through touch, isn't it? Unless they are bonded, of course."

Spock tilted his head, but didn't question the "your." Jim let the mystery dissolve in the air between them.

"Even when telepathy happens," he continued, "you can usually only sense the shields, right?"

Spock was silent for a few moments. The breeze wrapped around the two, stirring their cloaks and hair.

"That is true," he said.

He slightly turned to Jim, waiting for him to question. However, Jim didn't press. Spock didn't continue, because he didn't know anything beyond that.

"I can't pretend I understand," Jim concluded, "but I'm very glad it happened. It probably saved our lives."

"Yes."

They looked out at the water. A group of firebugs flashed over the surface and hovered about Jim, the bright lights sparking around his face. Jim gently waved them away. The lights winked in his eyes as they diminished into the night.

Jim watched them go, the brightness fading in his eyes. He drew in a breath. "You know, Spock, you don't quite belong here, either."

Spock turned to him, waiting for him to continue. Jim shook his head slightly.

"All the Vulcans around you fighting all the time over blood and heritage…and then there's you, with your ideals of logic and science and exploration. You're not like them, Spock. You're different."

In the silence, Jim heard Spock draw in a breath. "I cannot, in fact, fight over blood," he said. "My mother is of an unknown tribe. I never was truly one of them. The difference you speak of is not an intention, but an accident."

Jim laughed softly. Spock looked over, startled. Smiling, he said, "Spock—" His hands rose into a half-motion as he considered how to explain it to him, and how to convey the simple feeling that welled up inside him at the hesitance and vulnerability in Spock's eyes. "Kol-Ut-Shan, Spock," he said finally. "Infinite diversity in infinite combinations." His hands fell, and he craned his head up to look at the stars. "Every one of us is a cosmic accident. But there will be a future where there are so many variables, so many different possibilities, that where you come from hardly matters anymore. It's a future you should be proud to fight for."

They sat in warm silence for a while as the insects murmured around them. Spock turned his eyes upwards.

"You also fight for this future," surmised Spock.

Jim gazed out. The hum of the insects became the vibration of his ship, and the voices of the wind in the trees transformed into the bustle and conversation as he strode onto the bridge, settling into his chair. The voices were immediate, yet irrevocably distant and empty.

He was silent for so long that Spock turned all the way to face him. His open, waiting face brought Jim back from the cold noise of the ship to the warm winds and waters.

Jim's mouth twitched. His hands rose, then fell back into his lap. "It's difficult to keep fighting. But I do my best."

The wind blew, and they heard the handles of the buckets clink, reminding them where they should be. Spock looked at Jim, and Jim nodded. They both rose and lifted their buckets.

They walked back over the desert in the deepening night.

* * *

After several trips there and back, they had fetched all the water the sanctuary needed. Spock set down his final two buckets and opened the door, and the bright artificial light shone forth. Thanking him, Jim stepped into the cool hallway, pulling on his hood.

He turned back. "Spock?"

Spock gazed at him, his hand still on the door. The expansive darkness glimmered around his figure. Jim dropped the hood.

"Thanks for letting me help you," he said.

Spock nodded. "The assistance was appreciated, Captain," he replied smoothly.

The corner of his mouth tugged in a smile. "Please, call me Jim."

They took their buckets to the water room. Then, Spock walked him back to his room.

Jim stepped through the door. "Are we going again same time tomorrow?"

"Your sentence has only just begun," replied Spock.

Jim laughed softly. "Good night, Spock."

Spock nodded, the corners of his mouth curved up ever so slightly. "Good night, Jim."

* * *

Jim closed the door behind him. With only a vague look in McCoy's direction, he walked over to his mattress and settled down. Changing his mind, he swiftly rose again and paced the length of the room.

McCoy looked up from the tricorder. "Well?" he inquired.

Jim paused and looked over at him. "What?"

"Did you and Spock have a nice outing?

He laughed. "Outing? We carried buckets of water through the desert, Bones."

"If you say so," replied McCoy. He hid his smile by ducking his head to look at the tricorder. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Jim restlessly settled back onto the mattress.

He had to look all the way back up to confirm what he saw. The hard, fixed expression on the captain's face had completely fallen away. Jim's cheeks was flushed with exertion and the desert wind, his face vibrant with life. It was a raw youth McCoy hadn't seen in months.

Jim asked to see the tricorder, and McCoy handed it to him. Jim turned it over in his hands and fiddled with some wires, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. As he leaned over to help Jim, McCoy found his own mind wandering. He felt deep in his heart that something large, inexplicable, and rare was happening. He didn't know whether it was good or bad, or what would come of it.

As he lay on his mattress, with Jim's breath falling into a steady cadence, he studied the expansive darkness above him. That sense of largeness overtook him again. He didn't know whether to give into a relieved joy or into the insidious uneasiness creeping up on him.

Then he remembered Jim's hands glazing distractedly over the tricorder, and the wondrous openness of his friend's face. Somehow, Jim had finally found himself again, and why would he do anything to stop that?

Sighing, McCoy shook his head and smiled. He turned away towards the wall, pulling his blanket over him and resolving to go to sleep.

* * *

Comments, as always, are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading!

Also, if you could check out my new story, "Communion," I'd be ever so grateful. I'm really proud of how it turned out and feedback would mean the world to me. Summary: "At the very end of end-stage heart failure, Jim Kirk enjoys one more day with the people who mean the most to him. His t'hy'la never leaves his side."


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